Fallout
by star wars for Jesus
Summary: In this sequel to "The Duchess" and "The Diary", Obi-Wan Kenobi once more runs into Bo-Katan Kryze, sister of his late flame, Satine Kryze.


Head bowed against the blustery desert wind, Obi-Wan Kenobi shuffled along the street. Its deep, sandy path was mostly deserted, save for a few grisly merchants and their booths, their brightly-colored tarps whipping angrily with the winds currents. Harsh aromas wafted out of them, meeting and mixing in the street center to create something truly pungent; as he plodded stiffly along, he caught whiffs of everything from the biting tinge of exotic spices, to the rancid blow of freshly-tanned leather. He pulled up alongside on of the less…fragrant…booths, pausing to purchase an assortment of supplies from a prickly Klantoonian before he began making his way toward the cantina.

To keep himself a little less memorable in the minds of the Mos Eisley town folk, Obi-Wan only dragged himself into the place once a month for supplies. But this time around…well, he'd found himself holding out a little longer, drawing out his rations till he'd been nearly floored by hunger pangs. And to be honest, he almost wished more for that than the mounting feeling of quiet dread he felt now, subtly fortifying itself within his chest. He knew it was wildly unlikely that _she_ was still holing up in Mos Eisley-yet he could still taste a little bile as he ambled into the cantina, nausea settling over him in stupefying waves. Bit back a dry heave while he settled himself at his usual table, aloof to the bar's bedraggled clientele.

Balancing a line of mugs on a tray with fluid grace, the cantina's shapely Twi'Lek waitress drifted his way. "What'll it be today, sir? The usual?"

He shook his head. "No, thank you. I'll just be having water today."

The waitress scrutinized him openly, her deep umber eyes intent. "You sure? You look like you a need a drink, from the looks of you. It'll settle your stomach, keep you from lookin' so green."

He dragged a shaky hand over his face. "Is it really that noticeable?"

"Yeah, but don't worry. This desert has a way of addlin' people, and we get a coupla fellows like you in here every day. Even spotted a pod-racer with some wrong colors, by the stars! Can you imagine that?"

"No, I don't say I can," he replied, shuddering inwardly at the thought of being trapped in one of those crazy metal prisons. He showed her a friendly—but not _too_ friendly—smile. "I suppose I will be having that ale, then. You've utterly convinced me."

The waitress blushed slightly, then said, "Alright, but you should know that it's not comin' out of your pocket. Compliments of the lady in black."

As the Twi'Lek hurried off, head-tails bobbing like perky braids against her back, Obi-Wan frantically scanned the bar. At first, he couldn't find anyone matching that description, and he frowned. He couldn't even spot a single female beside the waitress—women didn't start floating in until more unseemly hours—perched in any of the seats, prompting him to glower at the waitress' retreating head and shoulders. Some trick she'd played there: the fetching Twi'Lek had always been a little too friendly for his likely, and this was just further proof that she was toying with him. Suitably vexed, he debated whether he should just bang of out the place entirely, pushing away from his table till he felt a slim hand brush his shoulder.

"I hope you like the drink," rasped a thick, all-too familiar voice. The hand fell away, then plopped something onto the table before him. "I'll have you know that I read this cover-to-cover, and that it answered all my questions; now, though, I just want to chat. You're at liberty to do _that_, aren't you?"

Stiffening, he reached out the grab the thing—just as the voice's owner slipped in an adjacent chair, facing him. He grimaced. "Lady in black" had been an appropriate moniker: garbed in an ebony leather jerkin and trousers, the woman looked sleek and entrancing, like a piece of moonless night incarnate. Her emerald eyes, fair skin, and deep copper hair—along with her thin, carmine lips—contrasted with that image starkly, giving her an almost magnetic quality even he was struggling to overlook.

"Bo-Katan," he muttered sourly, almost to himself. He fixed her with a virulent glare. "I'm aware you're fond of playing friends with me, but perhaps you could forgo that act for a moment and just get to it: what do you want, and why are you here? I have a feeling it probably wasn't for the stale mead or staler company."

She showed him a weak smile. "Funny. Humor helps us forget, sometimes. Doesn't it?"

"I'd rather forget someone such as yourself," he retorted tartly. "I'll ask it again: _what do you want_? Is it credits, because a being with your skillset wouldn't have a difficult time at ripping off a 'teller."

Her gaze rested unwaveringly on his. "I want explanations."

He regarded her cagily, his fingers toying with the journal she'd set before him. "For what?"

"This!" she exclaimed, shoving a finger at the tiny, leather-bound book. "You allude to being in love with my sister, write poems to her and all that, but you don't give me _closure_. For all I know, I might have a nephew dithering about in the Outer Rim!"

A sudden burst of heat lit his face, his entire body going stiffening in anger. It was bad enough that he'd allowed her to read his diary, but this? This was far too personal, inappropriately so, and it had to be nipped in the bud. Had to be extinguished, before it blossomed into a full-fledged inferno. He leaned forward, practically hissing at her across the short space separating them. "I don't know what type of sick amusement you're seeking in this, Mando, but I'm warning you: _do not_ go stomping around in my intimate affairs! This is highly personal, and it's an embarrassment to both of us to be having this sort of conversation. You want to know your sister? Good! I suggest you consult _her_ diaries."

The woman's face remained infuriatingly bland as she replied, "she never kept one. And believe me: I checked."

"She did for a time," he answered, heat abandoning his face. Ice pricked at his cheeks. "The first time we ever really talked, I recall seeing her jotting things down in it on park bench. She was a rather prolific writer, for someone with so many responsibilities." He drew in a long, shaky breath before adding, "It's a loss to the galaxy that no one notable ever read her work. I imagine her poetry would've been popular."

"You read her writing," she said evenly, and he quickly realized she hadn't posed it as a question, but as a hard, unadulterated fact.

Pulling at his beard, he narrowed his eyes. "What is that you're getting at, Mando? Spit it out!"

She shrugged haplessly. "I'm not sure. It just seems like you go ballistic when someone meddles in _your_ private stuff, but you have no such problem when it comes to perusing someone's deepest, most intimate thoughts." She shrugged again. "Just an idea."

Seething, Obi-Wan leaned back in his chair, his gaze boring into Bo-Katan's. She really _was_ Satine's sister, wasn't she? That level, durasteel expression- chin tilted defiantly and lips taut in a severe line—she was wearing now had to be hereditary, and he felt like cursing her for it. Of course, he'd have to do it front of witness; just then, the waitress decided to slither in, hefting two frothy mugs in her thin hands. She set the drinks before either of them with an icy air, her eyes seeming to judge whether or not the Mando woman possessed a figure she should envy.

"Thank you," he said crisply.

"Yeah, thanks," muttered Bo-Katan, her copper brows slanting in an angry V.

As the Twi'Lek bustled away, he watched as Katan imbibed a generous swig of strong-smelling ale. That was a stereotypical Mando for you, right there: drank as much as they wanted—_whenever_ they wanted- and their livers didn't seem to have a problem with it. Go figure. "Why did you pay for my drink, anyways? Not that it matters, but I'm curious."

Wiping her mouth on her sleeve, the woman chuckled loudly. "Seemed like a good way to get you to talk. You seem to have some trouble doing that on your own."

"It's…" He frowned disdainfully into his drink. "Bo-Katan, there's nothing more I'd enjoy than discussing your sister. Truly. But there are things—certain details surrounding us—that Satine and I swore never to disclose. A few things just needed to say between us, and I feel that I'd be desecrating her memory by sharing them with someone else."

"Even her blood relative?" she asked, taking another long pull from her mug.

"Yes, even you."

Her coral lips jerked into a sloppy grin. "What ift I got nephews…nieces…?"

"What if you…" He slapped his palms to the table, a dangerous glint in his eye. "Why are you so blasted determined to raise my ire, Katan? Is it because the situation necessitated it? Or do you enjoy ensuring that you'll never get a straight answer from me?"

She swooned in her chair, clumsy hands fumbling with her mug handle. "Your nose'is sparklin'. Everthang's sparklin'..."

Defeated, Obi-Wan pushed himself to his feet. He went around to the other side of the table, muttering under his breath as he hooked on arm under Bo-Katan…then loosed a string of obscenities. Her head was lolling, hair streaming behind her like a ruddy autumn tree; her mouth was slack; and her eyes had rolled into the backs of her skull, revealing only the glossy whites or her eyes. Every muscle in her body felt lax and heavy, and as he tried to haul her from her chair, he felt the full brunt of her dead-weight dragging his arms.

The bartender—a grizzled twenty-something man he'd rather forget—rushed to assist him. "What in blazes happened here? We only be servin' her one round!"

He shook his head, perplexed. "I'm not sure. As soon as she touched her drink…"

Ignoring her head—which had settled awkwardly against his neck—he turned to blink at the pair of mugs. The waitress had implied that his drink, the one that Bo-Katan had paid for, was more expensive than the usual diluted ale he was accustomed to; however, it had been _her_ drink that had smelled strong, and that fact didn't sit well with him. Despite being pleasant to look at, the Twi'Lek waitress had an ornery habit of letting guests figure out for themselves which drink was theirs, and that -with coupled with the feelings of unease tickling his gut…well, he could pretty well surmise what was going on here. Hoisting the unconscious Mando further up, he shook his head at the dour bartender. "Don't bother yourself; I have this all under control."

A dazed look crept into the other man's eyes. "I won't bother myself; ya' have this all under control."

To be continued…


End file.
